An Undefined Christmas
by LovelyLivy
Summary: You can love your best friend, and you can love your daughter. You can love your wife, and you can love the woman who puts sugar in your coffee. Falling, it can be of passionate aruguements, or stony silences, slowly crushing the heart. JIBBS, TIVA, ETC.
1. Chapter 1

**_Okay...this is the most intricate story I've ever, ever, written. It is also the only AU story. There will be lots of ships, but nothing that isn't heterosexual, and nothing that is going to cause too much of a protest from readers. Each oneshot takes place in New York City at Christmas time, and is either past, present, or future. PLEASE tell me if I'm making no sense. They will each be connected to one another in the end, and if I play this right it will leave you going 'WOAH!' There will be some smut (another first) and some, JIBBS, TIVA, and MCABBY in this story, I promise. Just be patient. I will give you a chapter each day until Christmas. Capeesh? Okay, please tell me if any of this doesn't make sense._**

**_THANKS,_**

**_Alivia_**

* * *

Love cannot be defined. There are simply too many types. You can love your best friend, and you can love your daughter. You can love your wife, and you can love the woman who puts sugar in your coffee at Starbucks. A relationship can be built carefully with time or sparked like a match to some dry hay. When it falls or stutters it can be a knock-down drag-out of tangled limbs and passion-filled arguments or of cold, stony silences and punctured hearts.

New York City is, truly, the center of the universe. The little moments with people passing on the street, the well-mannered business men's quiet but firm words, and chatty, over zealous tourists, it is never a quiet place. Different ethnic backgrounds, pasts, hopes, dreams, stories to tell. Everyone has a different story. So many people go there, live there. The strange thing? All are connected in some way.

Christmas is near, and people swarm.

* * *

A man and woman walk, hand in hand, though the powdery snow, content with life. The sidewalk has not been treaded though just yet, the fall too recent. And it is cold.

"What did Kel say she wanted for Christmas?" Jethro Gibbs asks his wife, waiting for the chew-out he's about to get. Her head turns quickly, soft red locks whipping against her face as wind blows hard. She looks into his blue eyes in pure disbelief.

"You haven't gotten her anything yet?" He looks a bit guilty, only spurring her on. Her husband had been working_ far_ too much overtime for Shannon's liking. She stopped walking, and so did he.

"Christmas is ten days away! Why have you procrastinated like this? Everything will be gone from the stores and Kel really wanted that dollhouse! And I _thought _you'd gotten it already so I haven't even-"

Her words were silenced when he pulled her close to him, ending any conversation as his warm breath came out in puffs against her slightly-reddened cheeks. Anger was still apparent, though, as she crossed her arms to her body and refused to meet his eyes. He tried to soothe the situation as much as he could.

"Hey, hey, let's not fight right now, okay? The fort isn't occupied by a rambunctious eight year old at the moment and this is the first night we've gotten to be _alone, together_, in a long time. Please, Shan? I'll get up as soon as the stores open tomorrow and go try and find a dollhouse suited for a princess, okay?" The words were soft and sweetly whispered in her ear. And so unhelpful to her reasoning for being upset with him.

"Fine. Just, please, don't do anything like this again? It makes me really stressed out when I feel like you haven't helped out at all."

"I promise. Now let's get home before we freeze our damn toes off."

She readily agreed and together they hurried past shops and vendors, hoping the nights weather did not get any worse than it already was.

Leroy Jethro Gibbs felt that something was wrong the second they got into the elevator of their building. It was like a pin pricking the lining of his stomach, and with each step towards the door of their home, the nervousness grew worse. Shannon noticed.

"Is something wrong, Jethro?" Her voice held a tremor of worry, obviously confused by her husband's anxiety. His anxiousness made her anxious.

"No...just...I must've eaten something bad for lunch..."

"I told you to stop taking leftovers to work-" The words were said as she approached the door, and were abruptly cut-off as she found it open.

Someone had been in their apartment while they were gone.

"Jethro." The word was spoken tightly, and whispered. It held fear. There had been something in the newspaper about a burglar, but there were just so many nowadays...

He pushed her aside roughly, instinctual male dominance kicking in.

"Get behind me," he said lowly. She complied, resting a hand on his back, slightly shaken by the dangerous edge his tone carried. The baseball bat sat by the front door, she knew.

He pushed open the door quickly and made a grab for the baseball bat, but the assailant was ready, as he stood not two feet from where the couple stood in the threshold.

A sleek black gun in hand.

He said nothing. They said nothing. The only sound was Shannon's scream as four booming gunshots that rang though the cold, crisp air. Ringing finality.

She fell to the floor as blood began to pool on the peach-colored carpet.

* * *

"Never doubt a girl in leather, I said."

Men laugh and guffaw at his jokes. At his over-priced shoes. At his random movie references. His mother always said he'd make a great salesman.

Turns out he made a great businessman.

They talk numbers. They talk profits from dirty deals. They talk women, even though everyone at the table besides himself has a wedding ring occupying their left hand. There is no right in their discussions. And he accepts this lifestyle.

Illegal cigars are smoked. Too expensive alcohol gone through like water. He briefly wanders if these men have children at home, who look up to them, who expect nothing but good things to come from them. The children who would most likely be crushed if they saw the money their father's were tucking in the women's cheap lingerie.

He does what he does for the money. He is a greedy man, he'll admit. Too many women have hearts shattered by him. But it is fair, he concedes, as his own was torn apart in so many places there was barely any left to salvage. Life is unfair, and revenge can be the sweetest retribution.

A woman approaches him now, blond, beautiful. All natural, he guesses.

_She had been like that._

This woman who looks barely twenty smiles teasingly, and he can't help but wander if this girl does it for the thrill. Does she have a family? A home?

He certainly does not.

She wears a red, white, and green, striped, number, obviously paid for with her own money. Or perhaps she made it herself. He can't decide. The significance of the colors strikes him suddenly, and he realizes it is only a mere week until Christmas. Almost a year since...he takes a large gulp of his too strong alcohol, savoring the burn as its cascades down the back of his throat.

Her hips sway as she walks towards him, brushing against him coyly. He fleetingly imagines what that festive attire would look like on the floor of his flat. The enticing pale skin of her torso almost too tempting. It's been awhile since he's taken someone home.

Perhaps she is the one.

In a quick, sudden, movement, he reaches for his back pocket, halting her movements in time with the rich bass playing in the background of the club. He searches and finds what he's looking for, meeting her eyes with a sort of detached look as he tucks five hundred-dollar bills into the front seem of her negligee. A black business card is tucked with them.

She knows what he means. And with grace (grace _she _had), the girl leans in and sways her hips a bit more to the beat. "I'm Paula."

It's a husky whisper. Not at all like _her _innocent, clean voice. This snaps him from his alcohol induced reverie. He stands so quickly from his chair that he knocks her to the ground, and bouncers rush quickly to remove him from the club. He beats them to the task.

He lays a few more hundreds on the table and ignores the shouts of his confused coworkers.

"DiNozzo! Where are you going?"

He says nothing as he walks swiftly from the club.

* * *

Abigail Scutio admired the beauty of life. Since she was a young girl she'd felt it her duty to help others, whether it was as a shoulder to cry on or a few extra dollars. She was a true giver.

And still, the most giving people can be the loneliest. They can seldom be repaid. So she will volunteer at numerous homeless shelters, donate to lots of charities, and never allow a door to go un-held-open. But she will come home to an empty bed each night.

She decides this is unhealthy, and takes up a hobby. Photography, she d decides. She'd always loved taking pictures. After she begins taking classes she cannot seem to stop.

She still volunteers, gives, and holds doors open, but now she has a camera around her neck.

Abby loves it. Catching moments with your bare hands and holding them in a quarter of an once. Where ever she goes, you will hear the click of a camera.

The man who always seems to be thinking. The woman who tends to her flower garden as the sun rises. A little girl playing with chalk on her front doorstep. She catches it all.

The huge Christmas tree currently standing in Times Square was her favorite.

But sometimes the dark haired woman gets lonely again. Catching a man and woman holding hands. A couple embracing. A mother cooing her infant.

And each night she goes home alone, to cold bed sheets.

* * *

Coffee was never a good sign.

The man who ran the shop Michelle worked in was cranky, and lackadaisical. It was the holiday season, meaning too many orders and not enough abused workers. The fact he reproduced not six months ago not helping matters much.

Her sister had always said she was not good with kids. When her little cousin, Susan, was born, she, the oldest, was meant to babysit her and the other children as they grew. And Michelle's younger sister, Anna, was usually the one doing most of it.

Michelle just made kids cry. She could not fix her disposition, or ignore it. No, the growing bump that occupied most of her small torso was a plain fact and would never go ignored.

If only they had a stop button, she mused. Something that could allow her to make them cease all crying instantly. What would she do when her unborn child was here?

The thoughts gave her a pounding migraine, as did the sickening smell of burnt coffee. She should get used to it, though, she knew.

Plenty more to come.

* * *

"So, dear, what have you done this week?"

"Don't call me dear."

Her voice is colored with a bitter edge too mature for her young body. No thirteen year-old should be that bitter. But then again, no thirteen year old should go through what she has gone through.

"Ah, so...we've had a bit of a down cast this week, eh? It's okay, we all have our times."

Silence envelopes the small, brightly furnished room. The man with a heavy accent continues despite it. His eyebrows furrow.

"When you came to counseling you were very quiet...didn't want to talk about the shoo-"

"Look, I've just been thinking a lot. You said if I ever wanted to take a break from seeing you'd that would be okay. I'm taking my hiatus. Can we just resume after the holidays? I'm fine, really I just...I need some time to get my thoughts together."

Her expression is too mature again, now. She speaks with absolute conviction, leaving no room for the psychiatrist to protest. He attempts to make things better in the only way he knows he can.

"You do understand that you cannot run from this? Emotion. It will chase you like a dog after fresh meat until you will not have the strength or the will power to run anymore. I think it is time to stop running."

"Running? I'm not running from anything. Listen, it's been a couple of years...It's just the holidays. It reminds me of it..." The girl trails off, rubbing a thumb across her forehead.

"Then it's trigger. We need to work through these. And you ignoring it...Is it your father? Has he been drinking again? I understand that he has his issues but if you are allowing them to effect yourself I will be forced to-"

"To what? You can't keep us apart! And no! It's not him or my stupid grades or that _stupid _accident. It is the fact that I come in hear every week and listen to you yap on and on about _feelings _and _experiences _like some fucking know-it-all! You don't know what I've been through! You don't know _anything _about me! All you know is what's on that piece of paper my dad filled out when we first came here three years ago. You're not my grandfather! You're not my friend! And I am sick and tired of having to act like I _forget. I'll never forget her!"_

She begins to cry. Shaking sobs that wrack through her entire body and make her clutch the plush chair for dear life. Her fingers are too cold. Dr. Ducky does not meet her eyes, and if she looked a tad bit more closer she could see the sheen film of tears in them.

She lets out a breath. "I'm going home."

And with that she gets up, and promptly runs away from her problems.


	2. Chapter 2

**Hey guys! I started this on the 20th and it's now the 21st so you can make some obvious assumptions with that one. PLEASE stay with me! Next chapter will be the last chapter and will include TIVA, MCABBY, JIBBS, Palmer/Michelle, and a sweet, sweet, ending. But you DO have to read the whole story to figure out the true meaning of it. :-) I did not just write for six hours straight to have people only read the ships they like! BIG NOTE: This is the first time I've ever had some citrusy stuff going on. Seriously. The twelve year old has officially tried to write something kind of sexually implied. Kind of. PLEASE GIVE ME FEED BACK! REVIEW, PLEASE? **

**Thanks, LittleHogwartsGirl. You've made my day by leaving a review! :)**

**Loves,**

**AA**

* * *

He walked past the shop every day on his way to work. Once upon a time, when he still had a wife, a mother for his child, he would go there to buy flowers for her on Mother's Day, and Anniversaries.

She was only a faceless, meaningless, woman. Then.

They needed each other, he tells himself. The woman with long blond curls and sparkling blue eyes had captured his attention the moment she'd walked into the dimly lit bar. And he'd captured hers.

The eye sex, from the beginning, had been amazing.

She sat four stools down from him, alone. She had spoken in a warm alto voice to the bartender and ordered something right away, making him guess she was not expecting company.

At least he hoped not.

The bar was empty this time of week, and especially this time of year. Shoppers hurried this way and that outside the facility, anxious to find the best Christmas deals. He preferred not going outside, in the snow, for obvious reasons.

Well...only obvious if you knew him.

She drank Vodka, which intrigued him even more. Women usually liked frilly little things. Downed the glass, too. He guessed she'd had a bad day. She thought that from afar he looked too lonely.

So, she, always the driven one, made the first move. Over the drone of sports televisions in the background, she says loud enough for him to hear,

"How are you this evening?"

"Fine."

He's not a man of many words, she'll discover.

"Want some company?"

The question isn't hesitant, as if she'd taken years contemplating it.

He says nothing, and yet she moves down the bar to sit next to him. She smells good, he thinks. Like flowers.

"I'm Hollis." She doesn't hold out a hand. He's glad she doesn't. The scars on his hands from the knife that killed...it might scare her.

"Well, will you tell me your name too? Or is that just too intrusive?"

She's witty. He likes that.

"I don't talk to strangers."

He's already had a few drinks, she thinks.

They eye each other some more and finish drinks in silence. As she waves at the bartender for the check, he stops her.

"Why don't you stay, and I'll pay for you."

It's not a question. And so she doesn't protest.

The rest of the night passes in a drunken blur and the next morning she awakes to a man with ice blue eyes putting on his clothes. He is trying to get away.

Well, she'd always had a problem with letting things go.

"Last night was good."

The statement makes him stop. He turns to her, and she swears she sees regret in his features.

"We make a good pair, don't you think, _cowboy?" _

She prays to God that this was the right decision.

A few heartbeats later, there comes an answer. And she lets out a ragged breath.

"Yeah, yeah, we do."

They see each other while the rest of the world goes uninformed.

It's a weekly thing. Same bar. Same dance. Same morning routine. There isn't much talking to it. It's the way they prefer it. Hollis had never been the type to cast her soul to the world. She has a feeling he isn't the type either.

Soon, though, she realizes the clock is ticking. At thirty five years of age all of her friends are married. All of her friends have babies to care for. And she has her beloved plants.

She breaks the cycle.

"I'd like to meet your daughter."

Silence is all she meets. She pauses. Maybe now wasn't the time to...

"Kelly doesn't really like to meet my girlfriends."

That statement shocks Hollis Barbra Mann more than anything he has done before.

"I'm your girlfriend?"

"Well...I don't...you know what I mean, Hol."

"No. I don't think I do. What are we doing?"

A look of pain crosses his features. It's the most emotion she's ever gotten from him (and she's _not_ making him orgasm).

He still says nothing. Hollis kicks the sheets she'd been wrapped in from her body, shivering against the morning's winter air hitting her bare skin. She shrugs on clothes and brushes her hair into an elastic band, heart suddenly too heavy.

He still says nothing. She grabs her purse, and just before she crosses the threshold one last time, looks back at the man who was too complicated for her to fix.

"I'll see you next week, okay?"

He says nothing, and she leaves.

Hollis Mann is killed in a car crash two hours later.

And just like that, another woman is torn from Leroy Jethro Gibbs' life.

* * *

The first time he watched her dance was the first time he'd seen the world. The first time he'd seen beauty in human form.

The first time he'd lived.

He remembers how uninterested he'd been in going with his older sister to a ballet. And yet he'd gone, because it had been his Christmas present to her. The Nutcracker, it'd been.

He'd made it a point not to yawn as much as he wanted too. He made it a point not to kick the chair in front of him. He made it a point to _try _and show some interest in this thing his sister called _art_.

Men in tights were entertainment, yes. Art? Ah, no.

It was after intermission. As the lights had dimmed a beam of pure white light had highlighted a single dancer in the black abyss of the theater.

God, she'd been beautiful.

She moved with absolute grace, going this way and that. Pirouetting and leaping. How did she manage to get her leg to stay so still that close to her head? He imagined how she would arch her back under his touch as she did so on stage.

Every particle of his entire being was mesmerized by the sight of _her. _He had never felt so drawn to a woman in his entire 'playboy' style life.

The rest of the show went by too quickly. Too soon the grand drape was drawn and the house lights too bright. He had to meet her. To see her again. His sister chatted senselessly next to him, about how good the show had been, to which he nodded with vigor.

"Who was the dancer in the purple?"

It had been the most unique shade of lavender, complementing her skin tone perfectly. Would her skin be silky smooth under his touch?

"Oh, Tony...I know that look. Ugh, that's Jeanne Benoit. Her father has money out the yin-yang. She is _so _overrated. I mean she's not even that _good! _So please, don't even think about.."

He did not hear her as he rushed pass people, towards the nearest flower shop.

**!HAPPYHOLIDAYS!**

A friend of his knew her stage manager, who knew what her favorite restaurant was to dine at. So unless you asked Jeanne herself, they did not meet by simple fate and a taste for Italian food. Tony DiNozzo always got what he wanted, and Jeanne Benoit was definitely no exception. Or so he'd thought.

He flirts dangerously with her from the very start. And her reaction? She laughs. Yes, _laughs. _That isn't the response he usually got. Women would wink in return, or brush up against him _teasingly, _but not one had ever been_ utterly sexually unfazed. _

To say he was taken aback would be the understatement of the century. But then she straightened up, and gave him this knowing look, hazel eyes penetrating his soul.

"I'm _not _that easy."

He gapes. She smiles. She has the most beautiful, striking, smile he's ever seen.

"Why don't we get to know one another on a more basic level. I'm Jeanne. And you are?"

Tony DiNozzo was a goner from the get go.

He doesn't take her to his bed that night, or the next. And not for three more dates, either. Surprisingly, he isn't too concerned by it. Jeanne, herself, and the conversations they have, are better than any sexual experience, any day.

It is nice, however, when she finally takes the next step.

Nice is another huge understatement. In fact, mind-blowing would be a bit toned down.

He loves her, he realizes.

The way she rakes her nails down his back as he takes her on the duvet. The way she licks the shell of his ear and whispers words of encouragement as she tightens around him.

The way her eyes squeeze shut and pure ecstasy emnates from her entire form as she lets go and enters a world of euphoric pleasure.

Her voice is something in itself. She'll never sound dirty when she says dirty words. It's a sophistication none of the college girls or strippers could ever possess. It's fucking sexy.

He loves most of all the way she never clings. After they've made love she will roll to the side and stare up at the ceiling, almost as if pondering life and love. She is so philosophical.

She is so beautiful.

After two years, it is common knowledge they are together. Though they never refer to each other as 'girlfriend' or 'boyfriend', there is the sentiment that it goes beyond mere acquaintances. And for the first time in his life, he decides he wants more.

Tony does not want another man's eyes were only his are allowed. She is his. Or so he believes. What he doesn't know is that Jeanne Benoit is not a woman who will ever be held down. Loved. She is too afraid of regret. Too afraid of pain and loss.

He was going to propose.

It was going to be a private thing. After her last show of the season, he makes dinner himself at the apartment they currently share.

A garden salad, an exquisite pasta dish, and chocolate cheesecake to top it off. A bottle of expensive red wine accompanying the meal. White twinkle lights glitter the patio and a soft serenade plays in the background.

Everything is perfect.

The man can hardly control his excitement. He bounces his knees as he sits by the door and waits for her to arrive, small black velvet box heavy in his back pocket. This is it.

He waits.

It is time, but she is not there. Traffic? Probably.

Twenty minutes and there is still no Jeanne Benoit. Maybe there were a few extra autographs to sign.

Thirty more minutes. Fashionably late?

He starts to get anxious.

After ten more minutes he knows the food is cooling, and he calls the theater, hoping they will tell him she'd already left.

What he discovers makes his heart stop beating.

'_Ms. Benoit? Well, of course she's already left! Her flight departed nearly an hour ago. We're all so sad to see her leave, but, you know, the fact she's gotten an offer to tour worldwide obviously couldn't be ignored." _

He hangs up on the woman. His hands shake so hard as he practically runs to the bedroom, to her closet, where her clothes should be.

The closet is bare. As is her night stand. And her toothbrush holder. Her strawberry smelling shampoo is gone. Her thick wool blanket that used to occupy the couch. Her presence. Her.

All that was left was an easily concealed white envelope lying on the white kitchen counter top.

Jeanne Benoit was gone, and Anthony DiNozzo's heart was trailing behind her _beautiful _form.

* * *

Jeanne Benoit sits at waits at the terminal in New York City. Why can she not stay with him?

The question won't leave her alone.

Her eyes spring with tears as she contemplates the consequences of the decision she is currently making, but she holds them back because she knows if she will get anywhere in life she must be stronger. The weakest link bends the fastest.

She will not be like her mother.

Jeanne has said this so many times already, to herself. After she got the letter, nearly a month ago. As she made love to him for the last time. As she packed her bags. As she thanked the taxi driver for the allowance of her bawling and his comfort.

The taxi driver obviously had not much experience with a crying woman. She almost wants to laugh at the memory of his awkwardness.

With a calm, baited, breath, she comes to the decision that she will forget about everything that happened with Tony Dinozzo.

So she stands. So she tucks her hair behind her ears. So she clutches her carry on with a renewed fervor. So she strides towards the gate.

Unaware of everything she has just given up.

* * *

Timothy McGee hates cold winter nights.

And he hates the way people look at him when they see his torn clothes. His dirtied hands.

They do not know. They go uninformed of the life he once had. The home. The job. The family. God, he misses them.

A burglar was only too compliant in ripping everything he once owned away from him. After the criminal had stolen his newly developed hardware for his pitch at work the next week, Tim not only lost over ten thousand dollars he'd invested in the project, but also his career. He got fired.

Angela took the kids. And honestly, he cannot seem to find the will to blame her. He couldn't pay rent by month eight unemployed, and soon the money for simple necessities became scarce. The water bill. Electric. New clothes. Food.

Money doesn't buy happiness, but it sure as hell buys everything else that isn't moral.

Tim soon found himself on the street. He was never a tough man, his sweet disposition not allowing it. Life as a homeless man was not made for the sweet. Or the anally clean.

He learned that time was important. You had to have a schedule. That made the difference between sleeping in a box and sleeping in a warm bed. Shelters, in themselves, were tough places to get into. You had to learn what time they served what food. And when to speak. And when to act. If not, you could be kicked out in an instant.

It is safe to say that on Christmas Eve, Timothy McGee had no intention of possessing a positive outlook on life.

* * *

"Why do you wear funny-shaped plastic in your ear?"

The little boy asks the question far too bluntly for her taste.

And it's not funny-shaped.

"Why is your face the way it is?"

She asks the question just as snarkily. His innocent green eyes widen and his eyebrows furrow in disbelief.

"I can't believe you just said that to me! My daddy says girls are _supposed _to be nice," the six year-old says with conviction, his bottom lip stuck out in an adorable pout.

The auburn haired little girl rolls her blue eyes.

"Well, your daddy is just _stupid. _My daddy says that women can be anything that want to be, and that includes not bring nice."

"Nu-uh!" The boys sandy brown locks fall into his eyes, and he shoves them back, an expression of determination shadowing his face.

"Yes! My daddy is right, too! My mommy is mean to my daddy when he forgets to take out the trash or walk Woofie...she even makes him sleep on the _couch _sometimes."

"My mommy is like that too!" The little boy nods his head in agreement.

"Well...what are you going to put on that Christmas card of yours?" The boy gestures towards the lim green construction paper in her hand.

"I don't know. I was thinking something like this..."

She shows him her drawing she's done in light pencil, tucking a curl behind her ear and looking at him expectantly. He grins a toothless grin.

"I like it! But you forget a couple commas...," he mumbles, slightly embarrassed for pointing out the mistake, a blush creeping across the bridge of his small nose.

She rolls her eyes again.

"Thanks!" She whispers, and kisses him on the cheek.

His only reaction is to stare at her in shock, mouth slightly open. She points towards the ceiling of the first grade classroom.

"My daddy and mommy kiss ever time there's a green flower like that above em'."

Later that night she hands the card to her mother and father, eyes lighting up as they smile and hug her, obviously proud of her drawing and touched by her words.

Below the Crayola masterpiece of a green and red Christmas tree reads the words;

" _To: The best mommy and daddy in the whole, wide, world._

_I love you very, very much!_

_Have a Merry Christmas!"_

You must always remember that childhood is a fragile thing and it can be torn apart in an instant.

With gunshots that ring with finality.


	3. Chapter 3

**This is the last chapter. And really, really, long. This has been a fun story to write, and I actually cried a little writing the very end. And I never cry. :-) Anyway, please review? PLEASE! This is the chapter with Tiva and McAbby and Jibbs and it took FOREVER because all of the details had to be pretty damn near perfect, at least. But still, it is thirty minutes past midnight by my clock and I've been going at this bloody chapter for nearly six hours straight. Obviously, it's not Beta'd. BUT STILL; PLEASE REVIEW! **

**Have a very, very, Merry Christmas you guys! Love you all for reading my stuff!**

**Goodnight from the deep south!**

* * *

Fresh snow covered the ground. The lights of New York City provided sanctuary. They truly provided light in the souls of those who'd lost it. Each soul had a different view, a different story.

Jennifer Sheppard believes every single soul has a purpose.

Nobody would ever think the ninth grade English teacher of McKinley Middle School to be an optimistic person. The harsh grading system she'd developed over her fifteen years teaching was circumstantial evidence optimism was highly unlikely. As was the tirades given to juvenile delinquent and class clowns. Many of her students doubted Jenny had ever been a student herself.

If you knew her true motives, however, you'd surely disagree. Jenny did not think of herself as an unfair teacher. Just an expecting one. She believed each of her students had it in them to do far greater things than the society they were raised in depicted them to do. She wished her students great things, and cared for each deeply. She had no children of her own.

Jenny loved how a girl's eyes would alight as she realized she'd figured out a theory, or how a boy would smile brightly when he noticed his grade climbing up. She lived for these moments.

And that is the reason why Kelly Gibbs caught her attention from the very beginning.

From first class she'd admired the girl. Unlike many of the teenage girls Jenny had come across, this one did not have friends swarming around her desk as class began. She just sat, pencils sharpened, and a look on her face of determination.

As class had begun and Jenny had started her classic 'Beginning of the Year Expectations' lecture, she had still been silent. Kelly just listened attentively, gorgeous blue eyes following the teacher wherever she went around the room. After the class had ended, a tall brunette had sauntered past her desk snootily, and Jenny watched as Kelly's book bag was kicked half way across the room, things spilling every where.

The girl did not stop.

And yet Kelly did not so much as blink an eye. She began to pick up her things without any help, and the slightly shocked red head hurried to assist her. Jenny's hands found a picture lying on the tiled floor, and before she could take a serious look at it, the young girl snatched it from her hands. Jenny flinched.

"Are you okay?"

The question was said with a soft demeanor, and Kelly was taken aback that a teacher would be that caring towards her student. Especially this one, for from what she'd heard, Ms. Sheppard was the biggest nuisance to walk the floors of the school.

"Fine," she answered tightly. Her new English teacher did not look bothered at all by her sharp response.

Kelly wondered if her dad had told the counselor of her past, and if her counselor had warned the teachers. Ms. Sheppard hadn't even questioned the photo.

She hurried to grab the rest of the things on the floor and shoved them hastily into her tan shoulder bag, ready to be done with fifth period. Just as she was about to stand, a hand grabbed her wrist. She met the redhead's emerald eyes.

Kelly was reminded of her mother in a vague way. It still bothered her, none the less.

"Listen, if that girl, or anyone else for that matter, is giving you trouble, I could talk to the princi-"

She was quick to cut her off.

"Ms. Sheppard, I'm fine. Please don't."

The auburn curls of her new student flurried past her, and into the now busy with traffic hallways.

Jenny was more than a bit intrigued by the poor girl, always curious to see what would happen in the next class. She soon discovered Kelly Gibbs was a hard worker, passionate, and though at times quiet, had a hell of an opinion when it came to politics. Jenny shared her interests.

Kelly made straight A's, was on the debate team, and from what Jenny had heard in the hallways, babysat for many of her student's brothers and sisters. She still had little friends. And she was still picked on, as far as Jenny could tell. It bothered her, and she wanted to fix it.

Soon, however, half the year had passed, and parent/teacher conferences were on the horizon. The red head was, once again, too curious.

She wondered what her parents were like.

For when she'd given out the classic assignment of characterizing family members, Jenny had only heard about Kelly's small dog. The lack of strength in the project had disappointed her, but she'd taken it with a nod. Anxiousness burned in her.

Jenny did not know anything. Anything.

The day came, and Ms. Sheppard droned through it. The boy in her fourth hour who wouldn't stop telling the class about his slight...problem. The girl in sixth hour who would not stop chewing watermelon bubble gum. And smacking it. Why were kids nowadays so damn uncaring?

Then it was time. The door opened, and in walked a man with jeans and a t-shirt on, hair graying and a tad disheveled. So unlike the other upper class parents walking in business suits and too expensive shoes. Jenny narrowed her eyes. Was this really Kelly's...?

Then she saw his eyes, and she knew. Blue. Light blue. And when the florescent bulbs caught them just right, they sparkled. Jenny gulped and waited for his wife, and when she found no one walking in after him, decided God was going to punish her. For what, she had no idea. But she knew it was going to be a damn slow burning.

"Could your wife not make it?"

It was a question she decided later was far too intrusive. Why had she always been so straight forward?

Immediately his eyes clouded in what she believed to be anger and his demeanor changed imperceptibly from uncomfortable to withdrawn. His lips formed a tight line.

"I'm widowed." Oh. Way to go Jennifer...

"I'm sor...never...mind. So, Kelly? Right? I have good news. She's very advanced for her age and I believe she had no problem on the finals..."

She talks to him for God knows how long. About his intelligent daughter's previous test scores. Performance in class, area's of weakness an improvement, distractions.

"Does Kelly have any problems at home?"

Another wrong question. Throughout her whole speech he hadn't been too involved, but now he looks more than a bit pissed off.

Nostril flaring, he growls out, "No!"

Jenny narrows her eyes, a bit put out by his upset reaction to her simple question. She gets snippy with him as well.

"It was a required question, sir. I could loose my job if I don't ask. Please don't use that tone in my classroom, it's seriously disrespectful."

He scoffs arrogantly, and her temper is sparked so quick she doesn't know whether to tell him to fuck off or call security.

"What is your problem, _Ms. _Sheppard? You ask _me_ if there are any problems in my household and expect me to answer _politely_?"

"Like I said, it's a required question! What is your problem? The fact is your daughter has been bullied by girls since the beginning of the year and when I tried to intervene she asked me if I would _'please_ not tell anyone'. I feel this is a serious issue if she doesn't wish to stand up for herself!"

This shuts him up. A cold, angst filled, silence ensues until he raises his eyes to meet hers. She is taken aback by the saddened look she sees there.

"Kel hasn't mentioned anything about that."

"They don't, usually. Bullying is an upsetting, common problem in schools that we as teachers try hard to prevent and deal with. I hate to say it but unless your daughter wants to pursue disciplinary action with these girls nothing can be done. Now I ask you again, Mr. Gibbs, is there anything going on in your household that would result in Kelly being unsporting in defending herself?"

"You can call me Jethro, and no, not...recently."

His blue eyes have a glint of pain in them, and she is so unusually curious.

"Jethro. Anything in the past?" She should not have pried.

"No."

Her eyes widen as his oh so unhelpful facade is reinforced and his eyes grow hard.

"Okay then. Just...I suggest you talk to her about it."

"Sure." He gets up to leave.

"Wait, Jethro. I'd like to get to know you a bit better,-"

_Oh, what the hell are you doing Jennifer?_ His expression is so confused it's adorable. If she's honest, she's confused too.

"-so would you like to have dinner with me tonight?"

Jenny is shocked into silence by her own words. That was different. She'd never been the type to be open about things like this. I mean she is certain about what she wants but not too certain about getting it.

Her conscience is rattling like a wind blown shed, telling her that this is too wrong, that it's not smart to take advantage of a widowed man just because he's widowed. God, she doesn't even know _why _he's widowed. She takes a deep, calming, breath, and focuses on his expression.

His left eyebrow is raised, the corners of his lips lifted in the barest hint of a smile. He's...

"Sure,_ Ms. Sheppard_. Where? What time?"

" You can call me Jenny."

They begin a relationship nothing like his past ones. But at the same time, it is exactly like them.

The only major difference is that this one has mushy, tangled, feelings involved. He knows this could either end in success or total failure. The latter, he thinks is most likely.

Kelly does not know. Though Jenny's view of her student has changed greatly, she tries hard not to let it show. She looks at the girl with a new light, dating her father. Things Kelly does at times reminds Jenny so greatly of Jethro.

Jethro.

Jenny had always promised herself that she would not fall in love. That was a forbidden path of emotion reserved only to the heroines in classic fairy tales she read aloud to the classes. She would never fall in love. And when she did, she never expected it to be him.

His hands were rough, weathered, and so unlike her soft skin. And yet when the two touched it was the most perfect sensation in the world. He could grow so distant and cold with her sometimes, and it would confuse her when he did, but she knew he had his reasons.

Reasons she hoped to uncover with time.

One night, as she lie upon his chest in the motel room smelling of chain-smoking and alcohol, she asks him if he ever thought about getting married again. Jenny does not know much about her lover's first wife, but she does know that he's never married again. Something that always made her wonder.

"No."

The answer is too bleak, and she knows he has shut down again.

"Why not? Why don't we get married, huh? Go to Vegas tomorrow? You can wear jeans and I'll put my hair up in a ponytail?"

She's joking, but he still tenses. He wishes the painfully oblivious communications they've been having over the past year will never end. But he knows it will. It is.

"Is that really what you want?" He asks the question with a forced smile.

She laughs, green eyes sparkling. God, he loves her eyes.

"Of course not. I was just wondering...what you though about...that."

It's a lie, and they both know it.

"Getting married?" The question is rhetorical, though he wishes it wasn't.

"If that's what you want, Jen."

The answer he gives her strikes Jenny the wrong way, and she suddenly needs to be as far away from him as possible. She hates the sick feeling it gives her. And then she gags.

"_Jen." _

It's sharp, worried, as she rushes to the bathroom and loses the dinner they'd shared not an hour prior. He brushes her hair from her face as she sloshes water from the sink in her mouth.

"Are you okay?"

Leroy Jethro Gibbs is honestly worried for a woman. It's been a while.

"Fine."

Her nostrils flare as she walks back to the bedroom and hurriedly pushes on her jeans and blouse. He's confused, and slightly put off she's brushing off his concern so easily.

"You're obviously not fine, Jen."

"How does it feel to get a taste of your own wording, Jethro?" She asks him, suddenly bitter.

"What's your problem?"

She turns around, a new look of fury flashing through her emerald orbs.

"_You._ You are my problem, you damn bastard! You act like this..._this_, is nothing, that you don't care, and then it's like you expect me to go all in. I can't keep doing this Jethro."

"Doing what?"

He sees the slight glimmer in her eyes and realizes she's crying, then, and can't help the pain that rushes through his torso.

"I can't keep..._loving you_. If you won't...if there's never any chance that you'll _love me back_."

Jethro opens his mouth to protest, but Jenny holds up her hand.

"I know that your wounded Jethro. I know your messed up and _God, _it pains me not to know _why_, but the thing is; I don't _have _to know. Because knowing the problem would make me want to fix it. And the fact of the matter is; you don't need to be _fixed. _

"You're complicated and irrational...and I love that about you. I don't _want _to change you. And then you act like you don't really care about _any_ of it. About me. And it hurts me, Jethro. It hurts me more than you'll ever know. I can't keep doing this, Jethro. Not if it's just going to be a waste of time."

This is the moment when he needs to speak. From childhood he'd never been a talkative person, but now was the time because he stood a damn good chance of losing her. But he says nothing.

He says nothing, and she turns to walk away.

That is when it all comes flashing back to him. The man who'd just shot Shannon turning away from her now lifeless body. Getting away. Hollis leaving that fateful day, expecting to see him a few days later. He never got the chance to stop either of those people.

He had to stop her from walking out of his life.

"Jenny, wait."

She does not stop walking.

He is behind her in a seconds time, grabbing her shoulder and turning her around roughly, ignoring the flash of anger in her eyes. He kisses her. All tongue, no dignity.

All emotion.

"I'm sorry."

It's said in plea as he crushes her small form to his chest, burying his face in her sweet smelling red curls, unashamed by the sting of tears in his eyes. It feels so good to feel.

To love.

"Why?"

The question is a croak from her dry throat. He knows he must tell her the truth.

"Jenny. My first wife...she was murdered, by a man who thought he could take _everything _from me..."

As the snow falls, a past life is etched, and a new one is carved.

* * *

"_Clean-up on aisle one."_

Ziva David groaned, her hands immediately going to her tortured ears, abused hourly by that _stupid_headset. She hated her goddamned job. And she hated Christmas season at an upscale grocery store.

What she hated more? People.

Particularly rich businessmen who believed the women who bagged their groceries were chew toys they were rewarded for playing with. Rewarded by their snooty wives who hate doing the shopping. Ziva wonders if they get an extra scratch behind the ears if the bring their spoiled rotten children along for the ride.

"Zee, could you please get station two for me?"

Although she'd always had a soft spot for the sweet blond they all called 'Shortie', Ziva was not too keen on helping her out today. She gave the blond a look.

"_Please_? This guy has been an absolute _ass_ to me in the past and I'm not in the mood to have to wish him '_Happy Holidays_!'"

Ziva narrowed her eyes.

"I'll deal with him, Shortie. Just bag my line while I'm gone, okay?"

Shortie nodded, brushed her long brown curls behind her ears and held her head high as she strutted towards the counter. She would deal with this man. Unkindly, if she had any say in it, which she did. Sometimes Ziva just loved power.

"Finally," the man mutters rudely, and she is taken off guard by just how well dressed he is.

His hair is a sandy color, and he has the most striking green eyes she's ever seen. Well, not as striking as that one teacher is high school's eyes but...she seriously needed to stop getting off track.

She logs in as quickly as she can, ignoring how this obscenely uncaring man taps his foot like he is waiting for something of extraordinary important to take place.

She hates impatient people, too.

Ziva's register chooses _that _moment to need some authorization from one of her supervisors.

Shit.

"Sir, have you already swiped your card?" He gives a dumb nod.

"Okay, this is going to take a while."

This man's first reaction is to start to whine. Like a five year old, she thinks.

"Can't you just check me out, Goddamn it? It's not like it's rocket science! Some people have lives and can't just stand in lines for hours on end...-"

"It will not be hours, sir. And you act like _I _have any say in the matter? What is up your nose?"

A look of complete confusion comes across his face. "What?"

"You heard me, I am sick and tired of men like you tangoing into this store and...what?"

"You mean waltzing, right?" He smiles, and it's the first real smile he's given anyone since _her._

"The same thing!" Ziva gives him a defiant look.

"You're not from around here, are you?" His sharp green eyes narrow, a smirk playing on his lips.

"No, I am not. But that is none of you business." She clears her throat, put out by the blatant questioning.

"You sound...Israeli? Are you here legally?"

"How dare you! What right do you have to ask me questions like that when you do not even know my name!"

Her chocolate brown eyes light with hushed fury.

"I'll just call you sweetcheeks, then. Hmmm? Are you as feisty here as you are in bed?" He waggles his eyebrows as he says this, and she scoffs loudly.

"I'm not _that _easy. And I still do not know your name. But for the fun of it, mine is Ziva. Ziva David. And you are?"

When he does not say anything she grows worried that she's seriously overstepped some costumer/worker boundaries. His eyes grow distant, as if he's reliving some memory, and his face contorts in..._pain? _Ziva bites her lip.

"Sir?" His eyes snap to hers, and for a second she feels like she's seeing a new man.

"I'm Tony. Tony DiNozzo." He holds out his hand in a gesture of friendship, she takes it, and Ziva feels a shiver run down her spine at the skin on skin contact.

"It is _not _very nice to meet you, _Tony_," she says with a grin. A warm feeling settles in the pit of his belly as for just a second, or maybe even more, he feels like he forgets.

When her boss comes and signs her in, she continues to scan and bag his groceries, and he is so intrigued by her muscular form moving beneath the unflattering green frock she must wear. He swears she smells of freesias as she leans over and hands him his receipt. Nice cleavage, too.

Tony _needs _to see her again. Just like he needed to see _her _again.

"What do you say to having dinner with me tonight?"

Ziva chews on her bottom lip.

The question takes her off guard, something this _Tony_ has been doing much of. She agrees. He slips her his business card with the signed copy of the receipt.

"Casual or formal?"

"What do you think?"

Ziva writes down her apartment number on a piece of white paper and hands it to him, shocked that her hands tremble slightly.

He smiles brightly, grabs his bags, and walks with a new spring in his step out the doors.

**!HAPPYHOLIDAYS!**

Dining with Tony DiNozzo is something she will not forget until the day she dies.

In the past she had not been given the option of even _dreaming _of eating on plates of this fine china. Plates that cost more than her rent was a month, she guessed. Ziva was overcome with immense gratitude for her dear friend, Laila, who had been one of the richest women in Israel, and had bought her a dress not two weeks before she'd been killed in a suicide bombing.

The low cut deep blue dress had been one of the few things Michael had not taken from her.

She pushes thoughts of him away as she takes this man's arm and he escorts her to a table in the back. Tony seemed so disgusted with the side of town she lived in she'd been surprised he'd agreed to take her at all. The restaurant was private, and expensive. Again, there were things on the menu she'd never _even thought _of having the privilege to digest.

Ziva realizes now how handsome he is. His overpriced shoes are both offending and adorable.

They chat while they dine. He helps her order, and for that she is grateful. He speaks French, and so she must tell him she speaks Hebrew. His original hunch is correct. This beautiful woman is from Israel. Tel Aviv. He does not ask about her past, and she does not ask about his.

They speak about sports, her lack of knowledge for American idioms, and their jobs. She rants about the people she sees daily and he explains to her what he does for a living without telling her how much money he makes. It's a warming experience.

The share a desert, and his breath catches in his throat as she licks a spoon of chocolate. And yet she has not thrown herself at him in the slightest. The likeness of Ziva David and Jeanne Benoit are staggering, but in a way they are so unalike. One thing is certain however.

He is by far more physically attracted to the young Ms. David than he _ever _was to Jeanne. The heat is overpowering. Needless to say the bill is brought quickly that December night.

Tony asks her if she'd like to come back to his apartment for a drink, and she hesitantly agrees. Ziva is weary because of his intentions. The intentions she knows he has. Any man would have them. But she hasn't had sexual intercourse with a man since...since everything happened.

Tony's home is furnished top of the line, and Ziva is slightly put off again that his living room furniture is most likely worth more than her _life. _

"So, Zee-vah, have you ever seen Serendipity?" Did she forget to mention he'd already had a few drinks at the restaurant? Oh, yeah, that too.

"No, I have not."

"Blasphemy! Every woman has to see this movie before they die! It's the best chick-flick _ever." _Ziva thinks his impression of a homosexual man is impressive, and hilarious.

And so she begins to laugh. Loud, from deep in your belly, laughs, that shake her entire form and as he watches her curl onto the couch, he is amazed at how _free _she looks.

"You're really beautiful, you know that?"

She stops laughing, and a sobering expression clouds her face. Ziva stands, and walks over to put on her coat. "I should go."

"Why?"

The question is innocent, and sweet, and Ziva looks at his confused face, taking in every line and knowing this man has been through just as much heartbreak as she has. He walks over to her, eyes trailing down her form, suddenly hungry and lust filled. She gasps as he pulls her form to him.

"What are you-"

He cuts her off, kissing her, delighted when she begins to kiss back. And then she suddenly breaks away, and won't meet his eyes. Tony looks brushes a finger down her cheek, a confused look in his eyes.

"What's wrong?"

"We shouldn't be doing this. We'll regret it and..." he once again silences her with a kiss and she gives him a hard push to the chest, making it clear this is _not_ where this is going.

"Listen, Tony, I am _damaged goods. _I came here from Israel because my husband sexually assaulted me too many times to count. Anything you want, you will not get from _me!_"

"That's not what I want," Tony says with a shake to the head, still refusing to let her go.

"I feel something between you and I, Ziva. And I don't want it to end."

The words are so sincere and her eyes glisten with unshed tears.

"Okay. Just not tonight."

"Of course not. Take all the time you need, sweetcheeks. I'll be waiting." Tony winks at her for good measure, and she feels her heart give a tug.

"I would like that very much, Mr. DiNozzo." And she smiles.

Both of them know everything will be okay.

* * *

Michelle Lee is a very plain woman. She never drinks at bars, throws parties, or makes new friends unexpectedly. Michelle has a basic routine.

You wake up, go for a run, take a shower, get dressed, eat, take a cab to work, come home, make dinner, watch re-runs of her favorite television show, and go to sleep. There are no times of spontaneous, irrational, fun. Barely any times of fun at all.

Michelle rarely has any contact with new people, and unless that counts the new taxi driver every morning. And even then it is usually the same ones who make the same route.

Then she meets him. He has dark brown curly hair, dark blue eyes, and wears glasses. He is built tall and slightly scrawny, but charming, none the less.

She asks him his name, and her own boldness surprises her. This man could be an ex-convict working for the system for all she knew, what in the world had gotten into her?

"Palmer. You can call me Jimmy, though."

He's just as awkward as she is, she can tell. It comforts her a bit.

"I'm Michelle." What has driven her to tell him her name? She will never know.

Soon they are at her work however, and their time is through. For today.

The next day he is there again, and she is taken aback by the fact he is so consistent in being the one to pick her up as days pass. They begin to make small conversation.

She knows it should bother her that Jimmy is so curious about her and her life, but she isn't.

They talk about his life, too. Pets they had as children. Favorite movies, colors, books. The most trivial things that are meaningless but important. One day she wakes up and realizes he is the highlight of her day. This makes her too happy.

She asks him if he'd like to see a new movie with her, and he agrees. They take things back to her apartment, and she does not wake up to cold bed sheets like she expects, but a warm frame. This comforts her more than she can possibly say.

It is easy with Jim. There are no awkward silences or cold remarks. They do not argue. And yet she never worries he will cheat on her. He is a good man. A strong one.

So when she discovers she is pregnant, her first reaction is elation. Not necessarily happy that he knocked her up, but happy that it is his child. Not some man who just had to settle for her.

And so, with tired eyes, they lie on the couch on Christmas Eve, his hand resting on her swollen stomach, her arms clasped tightly around his neck. A fire lights their home they have made together.

* * *

Abby Scutio clicks the button, and another picture is taken. The night is cold, but she continues on. She must give the blankets she carries to the men in the alleyways.

They grumble, and don't offer any 'thank you's' but she does not expect it. She wishes she could help these men with their addictions. With their mental illnesses.

Then she comes across a man in a box who says the two words, and takes her off guard so quickly her head spins. He smiles at her. Like she is some savior sent by the gods.

His hair is too long, and matted, but is the lightest shade of brown. His eyes are a baby blue, like her little sister's. "You have a Merry Christmas, ma'am."

Abby does what she can not to gape. This man is not twitching. And he is not spurting off random things like some deranged lunatic. My God, he seems normal.

She must have said the words out loud.

"Yes. Yes, I was." She raises an eyebrow.

"I sleep in a box, with all due respect. I don't really consider myself normal anymore."

His smile is small, and sad. She finds herself wishing she could make it a real one. Her heart gives a tug as she imagines the life he might've had. Hell, maybe even a family.

"I'm Abby." She holds out a hand. When he looks at it, and then back at her, she realizes what he means, and drops it.

"Tim." The man's voice is even duller, now. She _has _to make it better.

"Listen, I don't know you, Tim."

He looks up at her and nods.

"But I want to help you. I need you to make me a promise."

Tim looks so confused, but he brushes off the feeling, and nods hesitantly.

"I need you to promise me you _won't_ end up being some crazy ass lunatic. And that you won't rob me of everything I have if I let you stay in my apartment with me tonight."

He looks at her like she's just told him she's the messiah coming to deliver to him purple pancakes with sparkly syrup on top.

Abby takes that as a yes. She turns to walk away and stops when she walks a few stops, looking over her shoulder.

"Well, you coming?"

Timothy McGee stands, and walks on with the black haired Goth.

Christmas Eve was a time for miracles. And for once, he had hope.

* * *

The girl sits, her hands in lap, staring, content, at the painting on the far wall of the sitting room. Abby, the pregnant receptionist, calls her name.

She walks back into the room, auburn curls cascading down her back as she takes a seat in the plush chair, like she has done so many times before. This is the last time she will do this.

"Ah! My dear child, how are you?" The white haired man with the glasses takes a seat across from hers, his eyes aglow in the light of the fire.

"Very, very, good, Dr. Ducky. And you?"

"Just getting older day by day," he says it with a smile, the crinkles around his eyes too apparent.

"You still look the same to me."

"You're too flattering."

There's a brief pause, like they each are reminiscing on old times.

"I understand this is the last time you will be here to see me?"

"Yes, my apartment in D.C. is already sat up, orientation is next week, and...well, I think I'm ready."

The girl's blue eyes hold fresh tears. This man has known her for almost a decade. And she feels as if she's leaving him behind. "Don't cry, my dear."

"I know. It's just that you've taught me so much. I owe so much to you and you helped me through everything..."

"And that is where you are wrong. The death of you mother was a hardship. A hardship you did not know how to cope with. I provided the tools. You had the choice of either accepting them and helping yourself, or ignoring everything I've ever said in these counseling sessions and giving up. _You_ have overcome this. There is only one thing I gave you that you did not have at the time."

She meets his eyes, and she sees he is crying too.

"Which is?"

"Believing in yourself, Kelly."

The auburn curled girl leaves a woman, that day. Her father is happily married to a woman who she is proud to call her step-mother. Kelly will always remember her mother and is reminded of her many places she goes. But she will find peace with that.

As she passes numerous caroling children on the street, she sees innocence. As she passes a couple holding each other's mitt covered hands, she finds friendship and strength. As she sees the Christmas trees lit up in each home, she sees sanctuary. As she watches every person rushing passed her on the sidewalk, hurrying for the best deal, she sees life.

It is truly, an undefined Christmas.


End file.
